“Alfie Harris lived here until he was 15,” said Lennox without looking at me. I heard him exhale; a tremendous loss to the lungs.
I gripped onto the railings. It was a preventative measure. I didn’t want to fall down.
“You know this place?” I asked, turning to stare at him.
“Not in this life,” he answered, shaking his head, “but I’ve definitely been here before.”
“What do you remember?” I asked, testing him.
Lennox described rooms, routines, staff team names, semi-independence packages for adolescent males. I could have insisted we go inside to test his knowledge but I was convinced he was telling the truth. I would check records later even though everyone has a confidential file. Throw money at the problem if I needed to encourage people to talk. At the end of the day, I just needed a name. I knew what happened next.
“How long have you known?” I whispered.
“Only since yesterday,” he replied. “Until now it has all been a blur; the flashbacks just had audio, mostly me screaming. Then I remembered this street. I know this place.”
I looked at him, loving him, losing him. We couldn’t go on and pretend this had never happened.
“How could you possibly know he lived here?” I asked. “Is he still alive?” It was almost too shocking a consideration.
Lennox shook his head. “He’s dead.”
“How can you be so sure?” I pressed him for details. He could have been wrongly identified. This wasn’t an impossible truth.
“I’m sure,” Lennox replied without any hesitation or doubt. It was a painful admission for him to make. It hurt him, I could tell.
He looked at me. I believed him.
Then I walked off, board under my arm this time, and he didn’t follow me. We had shared too much and it hadn’t brought us together.
Confused and scared, the loneliest girl in the world, I walked and walked. Thoughts overwhelmed me. Why was Alfie Harris screaming when he was the one with the gun? I needed to know why Lennox was so afraid.
I knew why I was afraid. I was afraid of what action I would take next: shoot the drug addict, the shooter, whoever. Put a bullet in his heart.
I needed a friend. I needed my friend. As I reached the canal again I sent Viv a text: Have I told u lately that I <3 u?
I checked the screen, I checked the screen at 10 second intervals all the way back home. I was thirsty. I was exhausted. I avoided Louise and collapsed on my bed. I checked the screen again. I switched my mobile off and then back on again. Check. No new messages.
19
Lennox: connection
The pram was the trigger. I saw the pram and, zap, it seemed to send an electrical pulse to my brain; retrieving dead files and rapidly restoring them.
The pram must have been there the whole time but I’d never noticed it. Maybe I had but it certainly hadn’t registered before. Zap, it did now. Angie must have been there the whole time too and I hadn’t seen her.
I know how to fight back, hold my own, but this was Angie we’re talking about. She was coming at me with forehead, fists and fingernails and I just took it, I didn’t even bring my hands up to protect my face. I couldn’t speak so I must have been winded; some things are better left unsaid.
I remember lying there, looking up at the artificial lighting. I seemed to be getting into the habit of falling down lately; which was weird considering I was supposed to be someone with impeccable balance.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in Mrs Martel’s office. I said I didn’t want to go home – no more parental concern, please.
She cancelled her appointments. I just sat there. She handed me her iPad. I considered taking a little action-adventure with Grand Theft Auto. Mrs Martel still wasn’t concerned that video games would increase aggression even though I’d confessed I was at one with a gun. She reminded me that untreated mental illness was more of a cause for concern. Real-world violence, she added, happened when disturbed people had access to firearms. Video games, by contrast, were just escapism.
I had a feeling she wanted to save the world, the real-world one that was awash with people in emotional pain. “Tell me where it hurts” would make a great Martel superhero catchphrase.
She was going to have a go at saving me first though. She arranged for someone to “check me out”, which involved shining a torch directly into my eyes and asking what the date was. I got the answer right even though I was stuck in the past, 15 years ago and counting. It was kinda hard to be in two places at once but that was my problem to work out.
“Do you want to tell me what just happened out there?” Mrs Martel asked. Until now, she’d been taking phone calls, writing down appointments, moving piles of paperwork around her desk. Business as usual while I looked on.
“I know more than I did before,” I said, shrugging. She wanted me to tell her what had happened. I wouldn’t mind someone telling me what the hell was going on.
“The flashbacks are more detailed?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Right down to a logo on the hood of the pram.”
“Observant,” she replied.
I thought this would be a good word to write down but she didn’t.
“Will I keep remembering more stuff?” I asked.
“Is there more to remember?”
“I don’t really know. I do want to know what happened to Alfie,” I said. It wasn’t really good form to have sympathies for a killer but I felt such a connection with him, I just couldn’t let it go. “I want to know why Alfie Harris was so afraid.”
“Then let yourself go,” advised Mrs Martel. “You’re in a safe place right now. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
“I don’t know how to bring on a flashback,” I reminded her.
“The reason you are beginning to remember more,” she explained, “is because you keep going back to the same place. It is the power of re-experiencing; it enables us to take back control. You know the scene, you know what happens, you’ve seen the worst. You are in control, Lennox. You can go back whenever you want to. You can also leave when you like.”
“I can’t,” I told her. “I’m afraid.”
The moment I stood in front of that children’s care home in Camden, I knew Alfie Harris wasn’t a killer. I couldn’t share this opinion with Angie because I had no proof. Mrs Martel would have searched the crime scene for a murder weapon. But this was me, attempting to solve a double murder with flashbacks and gut instinct.
To say that I felt a connection with Alfie was an understatement. I felt such a sense of abandonment standing on that sidewalk, I could almost understand why someone so young would resort to drugs as an escape route. Hopelessness, loneliness, sadness are such heavy burdens to bear.
I felt I owed it to him to go back. He was dead so it wouldn’t hurt him. He was dead so he couldn’t hurt anyone. He was dead so he couldn’t speak up for himself.
Angie had disappeared. She’d walked off down the road, board under her arm instead of riding. I knew she’d believed me when I said that Alfie Harris once lived here. She needed more than that though. Human wants can never be satisfied. No matter what I told her, she would always want to know more.
I jumped on the first bus I could find and made my way back to school. I couldn’t do this on my own.
Mrs Martel was almost at her car by the time I reached the school gates. She let me through security and asked what was going on.
“I need to go back,” I said, the words spilling out of me in a rush.
“Right now?”
“Yes. I can’t go on like this.”
Her office, same double seat, she reminded me that I was in a safe place.
“Let yourself go,” she said.
I know the scene, I’ve seen the worst. I was back in the park the minute I closed my eyes.
“What do you see?” she asked.
I saw the pram. Yellow hood, logo. The woman and the man standing next to the pram. Then both of them walking forward.
“No,” I replied. “I know them. I’ve met these people before. We are talking. No one is shouting.”
There was a natural pause. Then I looked down. I’m holding an orange plastic bag. I couldn’t see a gun.
“I can’t see the gun,” I said confused. It had to be there, somewhere.
“What can you see,” urged Mrs Martel.
“I’ve got a bag. Like a supermarket one.”
“Look inside the bag,” instructed Mrs Martel, “and tell me what you can see.”
I hesitated. Now I was starting to feel afraid.
“What’s in the bag?” asked Mrs Martel.
I breathed in, pulled the handles wide open and stared. “Money,” I said astonished. “I can see a shitload of cash.”
Mrs Martel wanted to know if anyone was screaming.
I shook my head. “We’re still talking… wait…”
“What?”
I watched the man return to the pram. He placed his hands carefully inside. I expected him to lift out a baby but he hooked out a bag instead.
Mrs Martel didn’t question me. She stood on the sideline, careful not to draw attention to herself. We both knew someone was about to get hurt.
“He has a bag too,” I said. Not a supermarket one, one from an upmarket department store, brown paper, eco whatever. I stared at it, focused.
The woman watched on while the man walked over to me, the hand with the paper bag stretched out in front of him. Without hesitation, I handed over my bag in exchange for his. Quick, straight swap, no fuss or fanfare. We’d done this before. Still no screaming.
“We swapped bags,” I said, remembering to include Mrs Martel. Then I froze. Rigid and cold.
“What’s happened?” Mrs Martel asked, quick to sense that something had changed, something was wrong.
Something was wrong. Something was seriously wrong. Their faces tipped me off; I saw confusion, fear and utter desperation. I followed their gaze.
“STOP!” I screamed, “WAIT…”
I was about to run out of time. It was about to go dark. I had to do it. I had to escape. I opened my eyes.
20
Angie: critical
I missed school again. Couldn’t face the faces. Instead, I watched my television in the bedroom as the morning rolled through the day and back into darkness again. Louise, weirdly, seemed to like the fact that we were under the same roof. She seemed to be nervous and agitated, pacing around more than eating. She also refused to go out, so I started an online supermarket shop around midnight to make sure we didn’t starve to death.
I was looking at options, Four Cheese or Pepperoni, when the silence was shattered as my phone ringtone kicked off, the sudden electric beats making me jump out of my skin.
Caller ID: Viv Lee.
My Viv.
Leaping into action, I swiped the interface to activate the call.
“Viv? Viv?”
Part of me despaired that she had simply called me by mistake but if this was the case I was determined to seize the moment. Try to talk her round.
“Viv?”
“Angie…” her voice screeched into my ear, an anguished wailing sound. Those beautiful, velvety sing-song tones of hers nowhere to be heard.
“Viv. What the hell is wrong? Where are you?”
Then she was sobbing.
The go-to thought was that Lennox had done something terrible or that something terrible had happened to Lennox. I couldn’t bear either option. I’d had enough bad news lately to last me a lifetime.
“Viv, talk to me,” I pleaded. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Still no answer. Gasps, cries, serious hard sobbing echoed down the phone. My head was spinning, what the hell was wrong?
I waited. I just held the phone, helpless, knowing she would have to come up for air at some point. Gradually, she caught her breath.
“Viv,” I said, my voice low, my tone serious. “I need to know that you are okay.”
“It’s not me, it’s Rob,” she gasped and this set her off sobbing again.
“Rob? What’s happened to Rob? Where are you?” I felt like a 999 call-handler attempting to establish the facts about Viv’s details and exact location before sending out the emergency services. I knew I couldn’t afford to go into panic mode and lose communication.
“He’s been stabbed,” she wailed.
The posters started sliding off the bedroom wall and then I realised it was me. I was now sitting on the carpet, back against the bed.
“Rob’s been stabbed?” I repeated, stupefied, hoping Viv would laugh off such an absurdity, like we did with those laughable text-message fails thanks to predictive text.
I put all my wishes on a communication breakdown but none of them came true.
Rob Lee had been stabbed. Talented, confident, popular skateboarder Rob had been stabbed? There had to be a mistake.
I could hear car doors slamming and voices. Sirens screamed down the phone and then abruptly stopped.
“Tell me where you are, Viv. I’m leaving now.”
“We’re at the hospital,” she said shakily, sounding small and scared. The sobs had stopped now but the silence sounded worse, ominous, much more serious. “Mum and Dad are freaking out. I don’t know what to do, Angie.”
“Which hospital? Give me the address,” I demanded, going into crisis mode. “I’m calling a cab.”
Perhaps I was future-proof when it came to a crisis. I couldn’t go into reverse but I could realise my own strengths, which helped to minimise the effects of any shocks and stresses that lay ahead. I had to think straight and act decisively, positively. I had to be unbreakable if Viv was falling apart.
I reached the hospital in 15 minutes flat. Not much traffic, it was late. Bad news travels fast, there were young people hanging around outside, anxious faces illuminated by pale light as they stared into their phones. Baseball caps, jeans, pocket chains and trainers, standard skateboarder uniform, Rob’s friends had turned out in force.
I ran straight through the A&E doors and made a beeline for the front desk. It was surprisingly crowded, lots of other people were also having accidents and horrors at midnight.
One hundred questions later, I gave up trying to break through the swing doors to get to the other side. I phoned Viv instead.
She answered immediately.
“I’m not allowed through,” I explained. “But I’m here.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said, more calmly, more controlled than before, no tears.
Then she was there. I hugged her so hard, it must have hurt but she didn’t complain.
“What the hell happened?” I asked.
Viv looked devastated – and different. No huge hair and vintage finish. It reminded me that perhaps we weren’t so future-proof after all.
“He was at a party,” she explained. “There was a fight.”
“And someone pulled a knife on him?” This didn’t sound like the parties chilled-out Rob went to.
Viv nodded.
“The doctors will fix him, right?” It wasn’t so much a question as a demand; the power of positive thinking.
Viv closed her eyes.
“Viv?” I questioned, shaking her arm. “Rob is going to be alright?”
She didn’t answer me.
There were too many people taking up space around us. I could smell alcohol, see blood. Someone, suddenly, vomited spectacularly over the floor. The waiting room had been transformed into a bad scene from a zombie movie.
“We need to get out of here,” I said desperately, steering her back to the reception desk. “I need to take her to her parents,” I said to the person obscured behind a computer screen. I nodded at the swing doors to indicate the direction we had to take.
This time, no questions just a signature required, time and date. It was weirdly quiet when we pushed through the doors to the other side.
Viv’s mother wa
s tear-stained and silent. Mr Lee was more wired, wound-up, pacing up and down, looking at his watch, holding his head as though that might stop him from going out of his mind.
No further news, we were told. Current status: critical.
21
Lennox: fingerprints
I had the power to make it stop – all I had to do was open my eyes. When I did, the sense of relief was overwhelming.
“I know too much,” I said looking at Mrs Martel.
I also knew that I was more in control now. I realised I could choose when to go into a flashback and, as Mrs Martel said, I could also choose when to leave. Whenever I wanted to. I was empowered through choice. I’d seen the worst, I knew what happened next without having to feel the bullet go in again. I’d died once before. I remembered it so well there was no need to do it again.
“What do you mean too much?” she asked.
“I was standing in Alfie Harris’s shoes. I could feel his fear, his blood was on my skin. How else did I know about the children’s home? I was him.”
Mrs Martel didn’t look at me as though I was mad. I’m sure she was used to the craziest talk between these four walls.
“Why was Alfie so afraid?” she asked.
“I think he’d always been afraid,” I said. “He had hustled all his life just to survive. In and out of foster homes. His real mother couldn’t cope. He’d been separated from his brother and sister in care. His entire family had been torn apart. What a life.”
“Do you think he was dangerous?”
“I don’t know if he was dangerous. I think he was aware that danger had been close to him for most of his life.
“Would that make him a killer?”
I shook my head, confident with the answer. “Perhaps his conscience had never been shown a kind side, but he wasn’t evil.”
“What was in the other bag?” she asked changing the subject. We were back at the crime scene again.
I hadn’t looked in the bag but I knew the answer. “Drugs,” I said. “Street value around £250,000.”
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